


Love and Intimacy

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Finch is a very private person, John's not really a voyeur, M/M, Prostitution, Sex, he's just protecting his boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: Harold needs support after Root kidnaps him.  John is willing to provide the support.  And watch out for further threats to Finch.





	Love and Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/gifts).



> This was inspired by a comment by Zaniida on another story of mine - I decided to challenge myself and write a story where John and Harold are intimate without sex. (As Zoe said in the story, most forms of love don't involve sex.)  
> Mind you, there *is* sex in this story, just not between Harold and John.

When Harold turned to him in the middle of a crosswalk after walking aimlessly for two hours until he calmed down from the anxiety of being outside with noise and people and asked, _“Does it have to be beer?,”_ John didn’t expect to be picked up by one of Harold’s ubiquitous black town cars and taken to a small yet elegant bar three blocks from the IFT building.  


“Mr. Crane, so good to have you with us again!” the host greeted cordially.  


“Thank you, Carmichael,” Harold replied in the snooty Mr. Crane voice. “Please add Mr. Rooney to my account and see to water for my dog.”  


“Of course, sir. Your usual table?” Harold nodded and Carmichael called over a young man to take them to their table. He moved towards the stairs John saw at the far end of the bar away from the door to the kitchens. Neither Carmichael nor the host-in-training commented on Harold’s dog, who wasn’t wearing a service vest and looked to all intents and purposes like a pet. He supposed having as much money as Harold did would mean that people would overlook minor infractions on policy such as pets in a restaurant.  


Harold turned to follow the young man and stumbled, a sharp pain shooting up his leg to settle in his hip by the look of his expression. John reached out and took his elbow, keeping him standing. Harold accepted John’s arm and gave a grateful half-smile.  


“Can we have something down here?” John asked the host.  


“No, John, that’s all right,” Harold corrected. “My usual table will be fine.” He released John’s arm and soldiered on up the stairs. John followed helplessly with Bear, on the lookout for a second stumble which never came.  


“There’s only men here,” John commented once they were seated at a small booth away from the other customers. The furnishings were exquisite, hard wood, leather, suede and silk. Crystal glasses, porcelain china, damask linen, and silver. No menus, either, and the waiter brought drinks without having to be asked. John sipped his, finding it the most mellow scotch he’d ever tasted. He smiled to himself.  


“A gentlemen’s club after the European style,” Harold replied.  


“Gay, though,” John persisted, not having missed the signs. He wasn’t an ex-international spy for nothing.  


Harold tilted his head. “Will that be a problem?” he asked, his voice skirting disappointment at John’s closed-mindedness.  


“No, of course not,” John hurried to say. “Just didn’t expect it, is all.”  


“Ah, you mean Grace?” Harold threw back his drink and held out the glass. Their waiter appeared out of nowhere to fill it then disappeared just as quickly. John privately wondered if he’d been trained by the CIA, he was so good at it. Harold sipped the second drink more carefully, debating to himself what he would share. “I’ve been gay my entire life, John,” he said softly. “It wasn’t just being more intelligent than my entire home town put together that made me leave for MIT. Grace knows about my sexuality and was willing to marry me anyway and play the part of beard.”  


John knew he couldn’t control the surprise in his expression. “Why?”  


Finch’s eyebrows twitched. “I suppose you think you deserve an explanation after saving me from Root? An exchange of information?”  


“No, I just — I don’t understand. You watch her from afar. You make sure she has work. It doesn’t add up.”  


Finch set his glass down with precision. “We love each other very much, however there was no sexual attraction or activity in our relationship.”  


“So she’s either a lesbian or asexual,” John decided aloud.  


Harold sighed. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve shared this place with you? Let you know my sexuality? It took me five years to tell Nathan, and we shared a dorm room and apartment!”  


“Of course it is,” John replied, feeling uncomfortable with his behavior even without Harold’s rebuke. “I shouldn’t have asked.”  


“No,” Harold said peevishly. “No, you shouldn’t have.”  


“Sorry. I guess old habits die hard.”  


Harold closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were free of annoyance but full of weariness in its place. “Will you join me for dinner?” he asked. “I’d like the company.”  


John accepted gratefully, glad to have avoided a major opportunity to break their burgeoning friendship.  


.  


.  


.  


John half-expected Harold to come on to him, now that his sexuality was out in the open, but after an excellent meal of venison, roasted vegetables, creamed rosemary potatoes and red wine, Harold simply ordered them another round of scotch. They talked for an hour, mostly about literature and Harold’s attempts to broaden John’s classical education. Then Harold sent him home in a town car, calling a second for himself. On the way outside, Harold leaned over and whispered something in the host’s ear. The man nodded and left his station to take care of whatever mysterious errand Harold wanted.  


Harold might have taken him up on his offer of a drink, and spent time with him, but he still wasn’t over his PTSD from being kidnapped, and John wanted to look out for him. Especially after the revelation of Harold’s sexuality. He didn’t want Harold doing something stupid because he felt vulnerable because he’d told John something so personal about himself. The bug and tracker John planted on Bear’s collar activated as soon as he pulled up the app on his phone.  


“— Tonight?” It was a voice John didn’t recognize. Looking at the GPS he could tell Harold was still in his own car.  


“The usual,” Harold said.  


“Do you want to start here, or…?” the man’s voice trailed off expectantly.  


“Here, please. A warm-up would be appreciated.”  


After a moment there was the sound of a belt being undone. John stiffened. There came the distinctive slurp of a blowjob. Harold gasped, then made a humming sound.  


“Ahh… that’s good, Joshua. A little slower, perhaps?”  


John heard a muffled voice, followed by another gasp from Harold.  


.  


.  


.  


John kept his ears open as he directed the car to let him out a dozen blocks from his loft, well within his usual limits for precaution, in case Finch looked back at his GPS data. Once the car was around the corner, he took the SIM card out of his phone and replaced it with another that Finch didn’t know about. He pulled up his app again. The ambient noise from the bug seemed to indicate Harold was inside a building rather than a car. He glanced at the map, made note of the hotel’s address and hailed a cab.  


“Crane,” Harold said, his voice crisp.  


“I have your reservation right here, sir. If you could show me an ID and a credit card for incidentals?” a woman asked, muffled from the distance away from Bear.  


“You must be new,” Harold replied, sounding even more condescending than Kara Stanton at her best. “My key, please.”  


“I’m sorry, sir, hotel policy —“  


“Mr. Crane! It’s my pleasure to have you here tonight. Is there a problem of some kind?”  


“Ah, Mr. Delancey. Your employee asked for my identification and credit card,” Harold replied, making his displeasure known through the tone of his voice.  


“I _do_ apologize, sir. Melanie has only been with us for three days.”  


“Hmm, perhaps you should update your training schedule. I should not have to deal with such questions.”  


“Of course not, sir. I will see to her training personally. In the meantime, here’s your key, and I’ll have a complementary bottle of your choice sent to the room. Will that be sufficient…?”  


“It’ll do,” Finch said, sounding grumpy. “Room 1515? Why isn’t my regular room available?”  


“I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. We have a large delegation from the Middle East which has taken all of the rooms on your floor. I could see about moving —“  


“No, that’s not necessary. This will suffice, assuming it has the same amenities?”  


“Yes, sir. Everything should be to your specifications.”  


“We’ll see,” Harold muttered. “I’ll call for the wine when I’m ready. Joshua? Come,” he ordered, the sounds indicating that he was moving away from the desk.  


“Have a good evening, sir,” the concierge called.  


.  


.  


.  


Knowing the room number gave John all he needed to find his boss. He let himself into the room above it, flipped the Do Not Disturb sign and started setting out monitoring equipment. He wanted to be ready in case ‘Joshua’ turned out to be more than an escort. It sounded like he and Harold had met before, but John wasn’t willing to take chances with Finch’s safety. Assets could be turned, and escorts were motivated by money.  


He knew; he’d played one often enough when he was younger.  


By the time he had eyes on the room, Joshua was on his hands and knees on the bed, naked. His hair was wet, indicating he’d showered. Trust Finch to want his hookers clean, John mused, settling down to watch on his laptop.  


He wasn’t aroused. While he’d participated in gay sex as his former job demanded, John had never felt like it was his preference. Besides, he was on a mission; keep Finch safe when he would be at his most vulnerable.  


Bear lay at the far end of the room, making it difficult for John to hear anything. He turned up the dial for sound capture. Harold appeared a moment later, dressed in a white hotel bathrobe, also fresh out of the shower. He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube and a box of condoms, tossing them onto the bed next to Joshua.  


“I’m going to blindfold you now,” Harold said, taking a mask out of the drawer. “I trust that remains all right for you?”  


“Of course, Mr. C.,” Joshua answered jauntily. He allowed Harold to put on the blindfold and maneuver him to the position he wanted.  


Harold took his time touching Joshua, rubbing his skin, noting a tattoo on his left shoulder. “This is new,” he said as he traced it with a finger, then his tongue.  


“Some friends and I got them a few weeks ago,” Joshua explained. John shifted. Something didn’t feel right. He zoomed in on the tattoo, trying to get a closer look to identify it. Too blurry — the camera didn’t have a high enough resolution. He zoomed out.  


Joshua was a short man, a few inches shorter than Finch, young, skinny and toned, with dark hair and a semitic face. Israeli, if John had to guess by the name, though he supposed he could just as easily be Arabic and using the English version of the name for convenience in the States. His clothes were tossed on a chair next to where Bear lay. Pants, buttoned-down shirt, vest, tie, watch, no jacket. He probably had a wallet, but the way the clothes draped indicted he didn’t have a bag, so probably no weapon.  


John wouldn’t rule one out, though. He knew several dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands, so if Joshua was an assassin, he wouldn’t need a traditional weapon.  


John frowned to himself. All the probabilities spoke to the kid being exactly what he seemed to be: An escort. But John couldn’t relax. He couldn’t leave Finch to his encounter. Something itched at the back of his mind, and he’d learned over the years to trust that gut instinct. It had saved his life and those of others more than once.  


Harold made a small noise and moved to stand behind Joshua. Only then did Harold drop the robe, allowing John to see him naked for the first time. John gasped. Harold’s body was almost as scarred as his own. Shrapnel scars at the hip, thigh and abdomen, as well as long, dark surgery scars on his neck and lower back. The only thing missing was a gunshot wound or two.  


Harold had an average-sized dick, John noted. Circumcised. He slipped on a cock ring after a few lubed strokes. Prudent, John thought, given Harold’s age. Harold put on a condom and applied more lube to it, then approached Joshua.  


“I see you’ve taken care of the preparation,” Harold murmured, running a hand over Joshua’s ass and tapping the butt plug he wore. “Will you need more than this?”  


“No, I’m good to go,” Joshua answered.  


“Good.” Harold played with the plug for a little while to arouse Joshua before drawing it out and setting it aside. Holding himself steady, he pushed into Joshua, his face contorted briefly in pain. Once he was seated inside him, however, Harold’s expression cleared and he began thrusting. He held on to Joshua’s hips and let Joshua do more of the work of movement. It didn’t take them long to find a steady rhythm, telling John that this was more than a second or third encounter. They obviously knew each other’s bodies and preferences.  


John closed his eyes, feeling ashamed. He was spying on his boss’ sex life. Not just his sex life, but him having sex! It wasn’t right. Not when he considered Harold the closest thing he had to a friend.  


Harold would be horrified to know he was watching.  


With his eyes closed, however, John was more able to concentrate on the audio. Harold sounded like he was enjoying himself, but Joshua sounded like… like John did when he was performing for a mark. Fake. Not escort-fake, that had a different cadence.  


John’s eyes shot open when the movement stopped and Harold groaned softly in pain. He watched as they repositioned themselves, Harold on his back and Joshua riding him, still blindfolded. The tattoo was closer to the camera, so John tried zooming in again.  


He recognized the gang sign immediately.  


Harold came while John was still on the stairs. He glanced down at his phone one last time as he approached the door to Harold’s room. On the screen, Joshua was standing beside the bed, with the blindfold in his hand and a filled hypodermic syringe between his teeth. Harold lay on the bed with an arm over his eyes, catching his breath, unaware of the danger. Joshua dropped the blindfold and uncapped the needle.  


John kicked in the door and raised his gun. “Drop it!” he shouted.  


Joshua spun to face him, his eyes wide in fear — no, not fear, anger.  


Harold sat up, looking from John to Joshua and back, but he wasn’t wearing his glasses. John wondered what he could actually see without them.  


“Mr. Reese?” he asked.  


“You, drop the needle and back away from him,” John said, making a show of clicking off the safety.  


Joshua’s face contorted in fury and he dove for Harold, needle at the ready. John fired, one, two, three, and the naked man was slammed back by the force of the bullets to collapse backwards and away from Harold. Knee, gut, chest, perfect shots.  


Harold let out a frightened sound and scrambled from the bed, dragging the sheet with him to cover himself. John advanced on Joshua and kicked the offending needle away. The man’s eyes were glassy — a body, then. He pumped a bullet through his forehead just for good measure.  


Bear, aroused by the action, barked once and looked to John for orders.  


“John?” Harold asked in a small voice. He grabbed his glasses and settled them on his face.  


“It’s all right, Harold. He won’t be a problem anymore.”  


“What happened? Were you _following_ me?”  


“He’s part of a terrorist group from the Mid-East,” John explained. “I was hunting a cell in Morocco before I got sent to China and retired. I recognized the tattoo.”  


“The — the tattoo?”  


“No time to explain,” John said, unscrewing the suppressor and holstering his gun. “We’ve got to get out of here. Even with the silencer, someone’s going to have heard something.” He closed and locked the front door of the room, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign where it was on the handle.  


“I’ve known Joshua for three years,” Harold said softly as he stood staring at the body.  


“Could be deep cover, could be a sleeper agent,” John said. “Get dressed. I’ll be right back,” he added, deciding that he needed to eliminate Harold’s fingerprints from the scene. He left the room to find bleach.  


Harold had gotten as far as the bed by the time John got back, though he was still wrapped in the sheet. “Harold, put on your clothes!” he ordered him, going into the bathroom to wipe down the sink, shower and toilet.  


“I’ve known him for years,” Harold repeated when John joined him in the main room. Harold might be in shock, but at least he was dressing slowly. John ordered Bear to watch the door and continued his clean-up. He wiped down the gun and silencer, leaving them next to the body. He didn’t have time to get all the bullets if he wanted them safely away from here and he’d loaded the clip with gloves, so better to abandon everything. He didn’t want either of their prints lingering for the police to find and he had another weapon if he needed it.  


He grabbed a laundry bag from the closet and gathered up the condoms, lube, blindfold, cock ring and plug from the floor, then poured bleach all over the body and bed. He emptied the trash of the used condom and bleached it. Now that Harold had dressed, he added the sheet he’d used as a cover-up to his bag and wiped down the rest of the room efficiently.  


“Come on,” he said. He cleared the hallway and herded Harold to the stairs, Bear keeping watch behind them.  


Harold drifted past John into the room to look at the monitoring station. He stared down at it for a long moment before something seemed to click for him. “I’ll have to hack the hotel’s security cameras and erase our presence,” he declared, picking up one of the laptops. The other retained live-feed from the room below, showing the body. He nudged it so that he didn’t have to look at it.  


The police arrived fifteen minutes after one of the bellhops checked on the room and found the body. Carter and Fusco arrived twenty minutes after that.  


“Is there audio in the room, or just the camera?” Harold asked, glancing at John from the corner of his eyes.  


“Just the camera,” John answered. It was true, too. The bug on Bear’s collar was now in the room with them, and John could be hearing their conversation in stereo if he wanted to. He’d erased the app from his phone and exchanged SIM cards when Harold was out of sight. He split his attention between watching the cops and watching Harold work his magic on the hotel security feeds.  


“I have to say, John, I find it extremely disturbing to know that you were —“ He broke off, swallowed, cleared his throat and continued. “— Watching,” he finished.  


“I wasn’t. I saw the tattoo and came to get you out of there.”  


“Don’t think me naive,” Harold barked. “You have over an hour of video here.”  


“I wasn’t _watching_ ,” John insisted. “I saw what you were doing, saw that he had a tattoo, and left you to your business. But the shape of it kept nagging at me, so I took a second look and he was close enough to the camera for me to see it that time.”  


Harold grumbled to himself and kept working.  


“Despite what you think you know of me, Harold, I’m not gay or bisexual. I did what I did for _work_.”  


“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”  


“What I’m trying to say is that gay sex doesn’t do anything for me,” John continued. “I wasn’t looking for an illicit thrill by watching you. I had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right, and if I hadn’t been here, you’d be in the trunk of a car about to be smuggled out of the country for a huge ransom.”  


Harold deflated, closing his eyes, his shoulders slumping. He choked off a sob.  


“Why me?”  


“You’re a rich American. They could torture you to get at your money or ransom you to your relatives, or both. I’m pretty sure it was about money. Terrorists need to fund their operations somehow and this is an easy enough strategy.”  


“But Joshua?”  


“Recruited recently, by the looks of the tattoo.”  


Harold shoved the laptop away from him and turned his back on John. His shoulders started shaking as he cried. John put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. They stayed like that for a moment, John standing with his hand on Harold’s shoulder. Harold’s sobs got louder and messier. John shifted, sitting down so he could put an arm around Harold’s shoulders.  


“It’s gonna be ok, Harold,” he said softly.  


“I should — I sh-should — have you do a b-b-background check on a-anyone I —“ Harold stuttered, leaning against John and accepting the embrace.  


John held him while he cried, his protective instincts playing havoc with his logic. He wanted to get on a plane to Morocco and hunt down the bastards behind the attack. He wanted to find out Joshua’s contacts and get everything he could from them to destroy their operation. He wanted to put Harold in a safe place where no one could hurt him ever again.  


He wanted to find Harold a lover he could trust, at least as far as being safe during and immediately after sex was concerned.  


He couldn’t do any of that. Harold wouldn’t appreciate it, and he’d have to leave Harold alone for extended periods of time to do most of it.  


Eventually, Harold quieted and sagged in John’s arms. “Feeling the adrenaline crash?” John asked. Harold nodded against his chest. “I’ll get some food. Bear will stand watch. Don’t let anyone in here that’s not me.”  


“That goes without saying, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied, sounding a little more like himself. “I added Mr. Rooney as a guest staying in this room when I wiped the security footage and erased Mr. Crane’s stay. I pay hush money to keep Delancey quiet, so we don’t have to worry about him. He’ll see that my name is gone and conveniently forget that the room had been booked for tonight.”  


“Do you need anything else while I’m out?”  


“Some clothing other than my suit would be appreciated, if you can find it. I don’t think I should use Crane’s credit card tonight and I don’t want to stay in this any longer than necessary without having it cleaned.”  


“I’ll see what I can do.”  


.  


.  


.  


John listened through the bug as he slipped down to the kitchens to steal some food. Harold ran a shower and cried again, if the sounds were any indication. Then Harold started typing, a sound so ordinary in his ear that he tuned it out.  


“You put a tracker in my glasses!” Harold accused when John let himself back into the room, clothing under one arm and a tray of sandwiches in his other hand.  


“Yes,” John replied. There was no use in trying to hide it, and if Harold focused on that detail, maybe he hadn’t noticed the bug on Bear.  


“You’re not even going to apologize?”  


“I lost you once, Finch,” John said, letting his anger and despair from that time show for a moment. “I’m not willing to lose you again.”  


Harold sighed softly and took the clothing to change into it in the bathroom. John set down the tray of food. There was a knock on the door. John unholstered his back-up piece.  


“Someone’s at the door, Finch, stay in there,” he hissed to Harold. Harold made a soft affirmative sound in response. The shower started going again, probably as a decoy sound. He’d have to remember to tell Harold that was a good idea.  


“Police! Open up!”  


John lowered the gun at hearing the familiar voice but didn’t put it away. He opened the door a crack.  


“You!” Fusco exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” He tried to peek through the crack made by the chain. John blocked as much of the room as he could with his body, even so.  


“Lionel, you’re interrupting me with my lady friend.”  


“You seriously expect me to believe _you_ have a lady friend?”  


“I think you’ve just hurt my feelings,” John replied, giving Fusco a sad look. Fusco didn’t back down. Good for him.  


“You know someone dropped a body the room below you, right?”  


“I was a little busy earlier and didn’t hear anything.”  


“I want to talk to —“  


“No,” John declared, shutting the door in his face.  


“Hey!”  


“Do your job, Detective Fusco,” John answered. “I’ll be in touch later.”  


He waited five minutes and made sure the hallway was empty before giving Finch the all clear.  


“What now?” Harold asked, examining the sandwiches.  


“You eat, you sleep. Bear and I keep watch. In the morning we head back to the Library and look into Joshua’s connections.”  


“When were _you_ planning on sleeping?”  


“I wasn’t. Not until we know you’re safe. If it was just him working alone as part of a cell, that’s one thing, but if the escort service is part of it, that’ll take more time to sort out and I’ll catch a few hours.”  


Harold rubbed his eyes and sat, selecting a sandwich and taking a bite. “You must be so disappointed in me,” he said after he finished.  


“Why? For choosing convenience? I’m sure you did a background check when you chose him initially. You had no way of knowing his allegiance shifted.”  


“I _pay_ for sex.”  


“So?”  


Harold looked up to meet John’s eyes. “You really don’t care, do you?”  


“With my past, paying for sex isn’t even on the list of things to care about.”  


Harold closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Thank you,” he whispered.  


.  


.  


.  


Three weeks after the kidnapping attempt, John arrived home to his loft to find a pile of file folders on his kitchen island. He flipped the top one open, then took the pile to read more carefully from his chair.  


_Finch certainly has a type_ , he thought to himself. Seven escorts from three companies, all dark-haired and in their mid-twenties, all with ethnic features and darker skin than Finch’s pale Mid-Western white. He tapped his earwig.  


“You there, Finch?”  


“Always, Mr. Reese,” Harold responded.  


“Would the end of the week be acceptable for the background checks?” he asked.  


“Yes, thank you.”  


“You’re welcome.”  


“I greatly appreciate your assistance in this matter,” Harold continued formally. “I know it’s not part of the job description…”  


“Your safety is part of the job description,” John countered. “I’ll let you know what I find.”  


“Thank you,” Harold said again, softly and more sincerely. They paused for a moment, neither speaking. “Goodnight.”  


“Harold!” John exclaimed. He took a second to screw up his courage. “I’d offer, you know. Even though it’s not —“  


“That’s why I would never ask,” Harold interrupted gently. “I know you would, and I would never take advantage of that generosity, even before I knew this wasn’t your inclination. I love you, John. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”  


John swallowed audibly. “I —“  


“You don’t need to say it,” Harold said when John broke off. “I know it without needing to hear the words. How you’ve protected me, how you’ve dedicated yourself to my mission, how you speak to me, those are all expressions of how you feel. I don’t need to hear the words,” he repeated.  


“No one’s said that to me without wanting something,” John whispered. “Sex, or to hear it back or both.”  


“Our society does men a disservice when it tells us that there can be no love without sex,” Harold replied. “Sometimes,” Harold continued. “Sometimes, all one wants is a friend.”  


“A friend,” John repeated.  


“You’re a dear friend,” Harold said. “And an exemplary employee. Isn’t that enough?”  


“Yeah, I…”  


“Goodnight, John. I’ll see you in the morning.”  


“Goodnight,” John whispered, hearing the click indicating Harold had closed the connection.  


.  


.  


.


End file.
